Monday, January 2, 2012

One of my favourite bloggers, Abel of Spanking Writers fame, has launched a brand new site for his collection of spanking stories. It's beautifully designed by Haron, and a delight to look at. Of course you'll want to read the stories too.

Here is a tantalizing snippet from one of my favourites, Marrakech. It involves a couple on holiday in North Africa, and makes the point that discipline never takes a holiday.

She looked down at the carpet: “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“What do you think?”

She nodded slowly. “But I didn’t mean to….”

The lift doors opened. “You were fooling around, and you broke what was a very beautiful, never mind very expensive vase.”

I ushered her into the empty lift. “So pleeeease tell me: where are we going?”

“For a walk, my dear girl. We have some shopping to do.”

.
.
.

“We’re here.”

Her eyes widened: the leather souk. And the speciality of this first street? As we looked ahead, we saw countless tiny shops, each selling one product: leather belts. Newly-made, hand-crafted leather belts.

She looked up at me, eyes wide. “But…”

“Choose a suitable belt, my dear.”

A panicky look on her face. Questioning, feebly: “Suitable?..”

I nodded, “Suitable.”

She stood by me. I folded my arms: “Well go on. I’ll wait here.”

Slightly panicky, she set off, looking nervously into the first shop. Then on to the next, eyeing up the huge piles of belts hanging from their buckles in the shop entrances. A trader spoke to her, but speaking no French or Arabic, she could not reply; he pointed to me, and she nodded. He, presumably, assessing my waist size; she, presumably, with different thoughts in her mind.

She ran her fingers down some of the leather, then moved on to the next stall, again reviewing the goods. Again she toyed with the belts, before selecting one carefully and disappearing inside. Moments later, she was back at my side, handing over a black plastic bag.

I looked inside, frowning at the lightweight belt she had selected. And closed the bag again, handing it back to her without a word, and shaking my head.

“What?”

“That won’t do. As you well know.”

She looked at me, then turned away, taking the black bag with her, disappearing back into the shop.

And then returning to my side, proffering her purchase for my inspection once more, the thick, well-crafted belt this time meeting the necessary standard.

She huddled into me: “I’m sorry, really I am.”

Placing my hand firmly on her shoulder, I led her forward, along the narrow souk, past the gaze of the merchants, before turning left through an ancient wooden door, into a high-ceiling, brightly-lit alleyway. Once more countless stalls lined each side of the market – this time, the souk specialising in another Moroccan speciality. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the slipper souk – each stall displaying hundreds of items of leather footwear.

“The yellow slippers are the traditional ones,” I commented, pointing her in the direction of the first small shop. Eyes wide, she scanned the rows of slippers, then selected a pair, paid hurriedly, and came back to my side.

“Where do you think we should go now?” I asked her.

She looked at me: “Back to the hotel?”

I nodded, putting my arm around her and pulling her to me. As she looked up at me, I asked: “And what is going to happen when we get back to the hotel?”

I'm sure you can guess what happens next, so please go and enjoy the whole story here.